Did he know that Vargas was in there?
Had he heard them talking?
Vargas didn’t dare move. Not even a centimeter. For that moment in time, he ceased to exist, willing himself invisible as Mr. Blister stared straight at him with those dark, dead eyes, suspicion on his disfigured face.
“You may as well come out,” he said.
Vargas felt his throat go dry. His heart kicked into high gear, pounding against his chest.
There was no way that Mr. Blister could see him. Not from that distance.
It was a bluff. It had to be.
But that didn’t keep Vargas from feeling as if he had a bright white spotlight shining down on him.
“Come out now and I will be kind,” Mr. Blister said. “It is better to die quickly, no?”
No, Vargas thought. It’s better not to die at all.
And if he’d stayed on the goddamn interstate, headed for California, the question would be moot. But no, he had to suddenly decide to grow some balls.
Mr. Blister stood there for a long moment, waiting. Watching. Listening.
Then, keeping his gaze on the warehouse doorway, he moved to the trunk of the Town Car, leaned in, and brought out a flashlight-one of those big industrial jobs, used for roadside emergencies.
Oh, Holy Christ.
Vargas didn’t want to move, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to stay put. The moment that flashlight was flicked on and its beam swept toward him, he’d be as dead as poor Junior.
Rolling onto his hands and knees, he quickly backed away, moving deeper into the darkness of the warehouse, trying to be as quiet about it as possible. He had no idea what was back here, and hoped to hell he didn’t bump into something solid.
He kept his gaze on the doorway, waiting for Mr. Blister to turn in his direction.
But then, out on the access road, a pair of headlights appeared.
Mr. Blister swiveled around, his body stiffening slightly as he watched them approach. When the car drew closer, Vargas saw a light bar across the roof.
Law enforcement.
Some kind of police car.
Mr. Blister relaxed, however, lowering his pistol as the car rolled up and parked behind the Lincoln.
A Border Patrol cruiser.
Then the door opened and Agent Harmon got out, and Vargas suddenly understood how his car had gotten across the border.
Harmon was one of them.
He looked at Ainsworth, then Junior. Slowly shook his head. “Was this really necessary?”
Mr. Blister shrugged. “ Que diferencia? I was told to clean up, so I’m cleaning up.”
Harmon nodded to Junior, a sadness in his voice. “I watched that boy go through puberty, and he never hurt a soul in his life. Hell, he could’ve been mine for all I know. His mom and I had our moments.”
“I had no choice,” Mr. Blister said. “He came at me with that shotgun. But do not worry. El Santo will bless him.”
“Will he now. He gonna bless us, too?”
“Of course. He blesses us all.”
Harmon gave Mr. Blister a look, then crouched next to Junior, putting a hand over the kid’s eyes, closing them. “What about the reporter? You clean him up?”
Mr. Blister shook his head. “He was nothing. A scared little bunny. And he is less of a threat to us alive than dead.”
“Oh? How you figure?”
“Better he run away than someone come looking for him. Someone who knows what he was after. So El Santo showed him mercy, and like a good little boy, he went home.”
“Uh-huh,” Harmon said. “So what happens now?”
“We have decided to suspend operations up here for a while. A cooling-off period. We will be rerouting our mules through New Mexico and Arizona.”
Harmon raised his eyebrows. “And where does that leave me?”
“Nowhere,” Mr. Blister said.
Then he raised the pistol again and shot him.
39
A flickering red and green neon sign out front read: ARMANDO’S CANTINA.
It was a small place, with wooden floors and walls crowded with framed plaques and photographs celebrating Playa Azul’s past. The bar ran the length of one side of the room, which was packed elbow to elbow with tourists and locals alike, clutching bottles of Tecate and laughing raucously.
The house band, wearing blue shirts and cowboy hats, played-of all things-a mariachi version of Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall.” It was an odd choice, Beth thought, but it seemed to go over well with the tourists, who were too drunk to notice just how awful it sounded.
The moment she stepped into the bar, she felt as if she’d been assaulted. The noise and the music exacerbated her growing headache.
She studied the crowd, looking for Jen, but saw no one who even resembled her. She checked for Rafael and Marta as well but came up empty.
Reaching into her purse, she pulled out Jen’s passport, which she’d taken from the dresser drawer. Crossing to the bar, she flagged the bartender-a busty woman in an Armando’s T-shirt-hoping she spoke English.
“Excuse me.”
The bartender came over, wiping her hands with a small towel. “Si, senorita. Drink??Cerveza?”
“No,” Beth said. “I’m looking for someone.”
She opened the passport, showing the bartender Jen’s photo. It was a couple years old, but Jen hadn’t changed much.
“My sister,” Beth said. “She may have been here with two other people. A man and a woman, both Mexican. Very good-looking.”
The bartender studied the photo, then shook her head. “No, I don’t see her. But I’m very busy today. I don’t see everyone who comes.” She nodded toward a waitress, who stood near a table, taking an order. “Try Isabella. She don’t work as hard as me.”
Beth thanked her and crossed the room, waiting for the waitress to finish taking her order. When she turned, Beth stopped her.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry, but I’m looking for my sister, and I think she may have come in here this afternoon.” Beth showed her the passport photo. “Have you seen her?”
The waitress looked at it. “You are from the cruise ship, si?”
“Yes.”
“I see many people from the ship. But not this one.”
Disappointed, Beth thanked her and was about to turn away when someone nearby said:
“Maybe I can help.”
Beth focused on the source of the voice.
He was an American of about thirty, unshaven, sitting alone at a table close by. He was nursing a beer, and looked unhurried and unconcerned, just biding his time. Not a tourist, but not exactly a local, either. He was wearing a T-shirt with a fish on front surrounded by the words MEAT WITHOUT FEET.
A fisherman, apparently. Who looked like half the guys she’d prosecuted.
She went to him, wary but optimistic.
